Neverender
by in finitas
Summary: When you've gone about things all wrong bury them here with a lifetime you would never regret." dark-angst ridden, post-Hogwarts and Voldemort DHr about living with memories of war and having strange obsessions.
1. A Day is Gonna Come

**1 – A Day is Gonna Come**

Bright Eyes 

              Many a night has found me stalking the streets of London. I do not deny that I closely parallel a vampire in my nightly strolls. I suppose our hearts have the same false hopes of finding a requiem for our empty souls. My vocation does not differ from the Deathless Ones. Perhaps I belong with those – the immortals, but our paths have yet to cross.

              My nocturnal _habits_ often find me ending my mindless wandering in front of an empty Muggle house on a frightened Muggle street. The windows are vacant and lightless. I know none have lived there since before the Great War.

              The Great War. I, and many of my generation, find no solace in the memories of those days just past. Those who spirit themselves with handsome tales and feats often have not witnessed the utter catastrophe shadowing the former students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Hardly anyone knows the true details of the day that ended the War of All Wars and those that were present were brought together by Albus Dumbledore in agreement of remaining taciturn.

              There was little argument that day.

              The only retribution – or shall I say restriction – I find that keeps me from ridding the world of my useless presence and ending the Malfoy line forever is those dear words my father spoke to me before I murdered him naked and disgraced. After all, his own son betrayed him and his master abandoned him. No, I daresay I found pleasure in the sight of his writhing body and the sound of his screams into the dead night. If only he hadn't spoken those _damned_ words.

              Ancient magic courses through my blood and those with the knowledge of it have already passed from this world to join in the pits of purgatory. I have little hope in finding solace from the curse flowing with every cell of my_ pure_ blood. Oh, how I loathe that blood.

              His words, however, did not quench the joy I held in pulling the trigger of a device stolen from the Muggle world he so despised. My delight in his last images do not supercede the impeding doom that was cursed on me. His blood stains my hands and will not evaporate until I fulfill the wishes of those deceased. Such is the magic that lies in the Malfoy line.

              I should've killed him before he could utter a word. My vengeance shuddered through my body to the very marrow of my bones that day and I left him writhing on the ground naked and shamed. It was reported to me that he died 38 hours after my bullet was lodged into his lower extremities. He had shamed himself one last time and commanded a house elf to kill him. I, of course, killed the house elf and left them both unburied in the darkest, dirtiest crevices of the Malfoy necropolis. I am a horrible wizard.

              I am also a powerful wizard, only second to that of Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore. And for that, my life is damned until Hades finds pity and engulfs me in his flame of death.

              I turn and leave the Muggle world. I do not belong there. The streets are empty from fear of those nightly goblins and ghouls. I laugh out-loud and the sound is bitter even to my own ears. I stop before a brightly lit house and watch a little girl watch me. A twisted smile forms on my lips. I raise a finger to my lips and search her mind for an image of her fate.

              I pass a hand over my face and take the form of her future lover. _Remember me_, I mouth and Apparate to a place where I belong. She should not have been up and I have punished her with the kismet of witchcraft. I am a horrible man.

---

              I rarely sleep anymore. The first rays of dawn each day land on the pages of a bible I have read and reread since the end of the Great War. The pages are worn and the spine is bound together with Spellotape. I have searched far and wide for a reason to survive, but I have found none. My quest has been proven futile, yet the liquid words are enchanting and I cannot stop my eyes from hungrily devouring the sacred text each day.

              I often wonder though. Is it true what I've read about the Son of God? Did he come to save? Did he come at all? Is there hope for a wretched soul like mine? Somehow, I know that even if I wash his feet with my dirty hair, I would never be clean again. I am the man that sold my soul for a bag of gold and attempted to liberate myself foolishly by spying on the beliefs of my forefathers. The Son of God would never be able to cleanse me of the blood on my hands.

              The days following the Great War were spent in a cold cell of a dungeon that I now own. My dealings with the Order of the Phoenix were left incognito and I was being charged with murder and practice of illegal Dark Arts. The judges had looked at me with hard, accusing eyes. They would not believe me any of my words because I was the son of a Death Eater.

              "Draco Malfoy," They had said. My own name sounded repugnant when They spoke.

              "Will you kill a man for what his father has done?" I had stated. "What my father did, well, it don't mean shit. _I'm not him_." They had gasped and all previous convictions toward me were intensified. "So you think I need some discipline? Are my words too sordid for the heirarchy that now controls the Wizarding world? Well, I had my share. I am Lucius Malfoy's son."

               And I was released and became one of the most powerful wizards in London. Second only to Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore.

---

              I am once again at the Muggle house on the Muggle street. The lights are bright and I am contemplating this new espial. The door pivots open with a loud shriek and the light filters out. I stand motionless. My eyes rise to the figure of an angel. My breath labors and I turn away. Such beauty would kill me.

              "Draco?" Her voice is a sweet melody to my broken ears. I step back and ready myself to run. My experience with celestial beings was limited and I would surely die from the purity that supercedes tainted blood.

              "Draco Malfoy?" She steps forward and I step back. I shudder and close my eyes as she speaks my name. It rolls off her tongue mellifluously. I do not deserve to be in the presence of such magnificence. "What are you doing in front of my house?" I open my eyes and prepare to answer, but my words are caught in my throat.

              Her beauty was far more majestic than I previously presumed. Her auburn eyes bear into my own and I plunge myself into her mind. She allows me and searches my own soul while I penetrate through her memories. I probe through her anamnesis until I find one that throws me back. I land on my backside, but I hardly feel it. I lift my head to see her smiling serenely down at me. I gasp for breath and lift myself up.

              "Hermione Granger," I choke.

**Author's Note:** The chapters are named after songs – and based very loosely on them – so the artist name is below the chapter title/song name.


	2. Miss You Love

**2 – Miss You Love**

_Silverchair_

              It is, indeed, a pleasant surprise to watch as Draco Malfoy chokes my name. Many have heard it spoken with fear in whisperings between the Deadless Ones, but hearing it spoken with such surprise and nostalgia forms a gratifying shiver that trickles up my spine. He is as beautiful and ethereal as I remember, but his eyes are dull and dead. I had long ago reasoned that only Malfoy's could achieve such a cold and remote attitude, but his eyes were too distant to be Malfoy. There was no fire that lit in them. There was no more passion in those cold grey eyes. The thought frightened me.

              "Why are you in front of my house, Draco?" I ask again.

              "I was not aware that this shack belonged to you." He managed to compose himself and his mannerism returns to the same Malfoy arrogance. Even if he hated his father, he could never change his heritage.

              "Don't be arrogant now. Not all people can be as rich and powerful as you." I smile and raise my hand to trace his face. It is so familiar, yet different. I feel the compassion I once had towards the lonely ones return. It was lost in the whirlwind of vengeance and death that captured my life and sealed my fate in the last days of the war. Relinquishing it again felt wonderful.

              "Hermione Granger," he speaks my name again and closes his eyes. All previous judgements and preconcieved notions washes away. His face softens under my fingertips. I smile again and realize that I have found the man I have been searching for all my life.

---

              "We all have false hopes of love," George tells me. He raises a glass in mock salute and drowns the entire glass of vodka and orange juice in one large gulp. He has a fascination for oranges. I take a sip of my own alcohol and it burns down my throat.

              "Perhaps, George, but I do believe." I set aside my glass and rest my head on my knees. Such fetal positions are common with me these days. My white negligee floats down to rest on my hips. George and I both hardly take notice that my white cotton panties are visible for the world to see. If the world wished to see them, so be it, but right now the world consisted of only George and I. And George had a fetish with boxer briefs, not panties.

              "I know, love, but do be careful. Men like Draco Malfoy expect all women to want the same as all men – a quick shag." He wrinkles his nose distastefully. "I suppose only women of those _gentlemen's _clubs want that, though."

              "Now, now, George, now is not the time to discuss the more perverse, shall I say, habits of the inferior sex." I smile and he smiles back. I love this man to death.

              "Here, here, Hermione. If only I were born a woman." We share a laugh and I remember how good it is to talk to someone again. My crusade in Australia was quite boring without my comical roommate and friend. One would find hunting vampires in the dry desserts of the south simply wearisome without any sort of comedic relief.

              "I'm sure Ron wishes you were born a woman as well." I muse. Ron had been positively horrified when George broke the news to his family. In fact, he was the only Weasley aside from Percy that didn't take his brother's preference easily. A shame, really.

              "Well, Ron can bugger off." George shot hotly. "At least I'm not the only pining after a woman that will never love me." I feel a stab of guilt that is quickly replaced by the image of Draco in all his powerful glory. I finger the hem of my nightgown, completely sober.

              "He reminds me of a fallen angel." I state.

              "I'm sure Lucifer has a special place for him, sweetheart." George replies and finishes my alcohol for me. I know he knows who I am talking about and that's what's great about us. We understand each other.

---

              The rain splatters loudly against the broken roof. My hair is in a disarray and I'm sweating like a pig. I feel ugly and frumpy, but this house has gone to the shambles since my parents abandoned it. I push back strands of hair in my face and sigh. So much work and so little time. I hear George clamber up the stairs.

              "Honestly, Hermy, it couldn't have been _that_ long since your parents left. This place is filthy," he complains. He enters the room and all I could do was laugh. His fiery red hair was filled with cobwebs and dirt smudged on his nose. He looks like Ron did in our first year. I was such a pompous bitch back then, now that I think back.

              "Well Mother and Father had no time to clean. Usually, it was up to me to keep the house at least presentable, but then I went to Hogwarts," I explain. It's a poor excuse, I know, but I only tell it like it is. Mother is a horrible maid and Father's no better.

              We work side by side, slowly cleaning out the many rooms of my inheritance. My overalls catch a sharp edge and a loud _riiiip_ resounds through the room. I look down and back up guiltily. George just shakes his head in silent laughter and we return to working.

              Many people expected me to stay friends with Ron and Ginny after the War. It was hardly evident in our school days that George and I were so compatible together. He was a jokester and I was the epitome of teacher's pet. I guess we balance each other. Besides, after the War, Ron and Ginny both retracted into a temperamental funk and I, frankly, tired quickly of the moody attitudes the younger Weasley's adopted.

              I reacquainted myself with George during the War. The joke shop was a big hit and I was in a need of a good laugh after months of torturous training and hunting. George and I had immediately hit it off and Fred followed soon after. It was refreshing to not have to act in front of those two. They hardly cared if I had secret desires to see the Other Side or if I didn't know the answer to a question. I was real with them, and it was an excellent change.

              In my thoughts and nostalgia, I hardly notice the dark figure standing directly in front of the house. I gasp and race down the stairs, taking George by surprise. He yelps and runs after me. I swing open the door and bound to him. I can't explain it, but I need to see him. I need to feel him and feel that he is real. And I want to smell him, taste him, but mostly see him.

              "Draco," I breathe and come into a halt in front of him. He looks at me and his eyes travel down my body. I self-consciously touch my dirty hair and look down at the large rip in my pants. I blush.

              "Oy, woman. Where's the fire?" George stops mid-sentence. "Er, I'll be upstairs. _Watching._" I hear him turn, but I don't pay him and heed. I fidget and wonder if it was such a good idea to run to Draco. Suddenly, I'm not too sure. Did I expect him to open his arms and hug me? Did I expect so much from him?

              "Hello Hermione," he greets. His voice is fatigued. We pause for a long time and stare at each other. He is celestial and unreal. I hardly remember to breathe and I wonder if this is the same boy from Hogwarts that worked so hard to make his father proud and to give us hell. I open my mouth, but close it. I have nothing to say.

              "You're so damn beautiful, Hermione," he suddenly spills.

              "Me?" I'm flattered and my heart beats a thousand beats per second. I suddenly feel like I'm back at Hogwarts and 14. It's the same feeling as when Viktor asked me to the Yule Ball and when Dean Thomas confessed he fancied me in seventh year. Except, to hear those words flow out of Draco Malfoy's mouth is sinful. It sounds too good to be healthy.

              "I'm just plain," I reason. This time, he's the one that traces my check. He shakes his head.

              "No. Beautiful." His mouth pushes down on mine. He is vicious and rough and gentle and sweet. As I wrap my arms around him I loose feeling in my knees. I slowly slid down the length of his body and he comes with me without breaking contact. It's too good to be healthy. I lay on the concrete and I hope to God that George doesn't barrel out of the house and sock him in the face because I'm afraid I'm going to cry if he leaves for a second. I'll cry and never stop.

              He moves over me and, oh, his body feels so good against mine. I open my legs a little and I loose all coherent thoughts.


	3. Closer

**3 – Closer**

_Nine Inch Nails_

              There is a strategic way in which I do things. There are places where I am needed and people that need me. My schedule is always precise and never filled in with scribbles written the same day. But this, this mystery, this is new. This is involuntary. This attraction is dangerous. This feeling of recklessness is consuming me through her saliva.

              Is it a sin to kiss an angel? She is like a child. Her messy hair and dusty face and ripped overalls had stirred something – an alien feeling inside me. All I knew was I had to touch her and if she would let me kiss her, I would

                             just

                                           fall

                                                         away.

              She lets me, though. She opens her mouth and shows me what I've been missing in my petty muses of life and the amount of hate it had thrown towards me. She is so beautiful, I cry. I'm glad it is dark because I know that George Weasley is watching us from the attic window. I taste the salt of my tears on my lips and break away.

              She cups my face in her hands. She looks at me with those wide eyes and I feel like dying. What have I done to deserve her beauty? She takes my hand and leads me to the house. Warmth floods my cold body. She is chocolate – an untouchable chocolate that I long to touch and consume with all my soul. The tears come swiftly. I am dying. I am weak. I am crying because of this goddess that meets me in front of a ghost house and lets me violate her with my mouth.

              I am sitting and she is on my lap, kissing away my tears. Her lips are on my cheeks, my eyes, my chin, everywhere but my lips. She drinks my tears and holds me tight to her bosom. I wrap my arms around her thin overalled waist and breathe in her sweet scent. What have I done?

              She pets my head and rubs my neck. I slowly drift away. Her fragrance fills my nose and her touch calms me. I press against her hard and never want to leave. What have I done to receive her? What have I ever done?

---

              I lift myself up with my hands and look into her eyes. They are so wide – so trusting. She reaches up and lowers me down again. I breathe in her scent. I can't get enough. She traces my ear and brings it to her lips.

              "Don't worry," She whispers and I can't stop. I push, push, push until I'm in. I stop because the pain in her eyes cuts through my skin deep into my bones. I feel like an animal, but God help me, I can't stop. She catches my eye and smiles. I move because her eyes are so big and beautiful. I need her. I need to feel her.

              "Help me," I choke. She runs a hand up my bare chest. I shudder and close my eyes. "Help me get away from myself." She smiles and arches to me. She feels me from the inside.

              "Don't worry," she whispers again. Somehow, I know from this day forward I won't worry anymore. From this day forward, it will just be her and me and this requiem.

---

              George Weasley looks at me behind thick black frames. I can't tell if he's angry or if he's just protective. I must admit, though, his manners of warning me are far more subtle and dangerous than his younger brother's red-faced, empty threats. His face is controlled and set and I wonder where the jokester behind this façade is.

              "She's worth more than your life," he tells me. I snort.

              "As if I don't already know this. She's worth more than both of our pathetic lives combined," I retort. He smirks and I finally see the difference between his twin and him.

              "I suppose. It's a shame, isn't it, _Malfoy_, for a pureblood like me to wish he was a woman _and_ a Muggle." My nostrils flare in anger. Forever, I will be shamed with the image of my father and his pathetic pureblood views.

              "It would be a shame, Weasley, if being pureblood really mattered. That era is over." Hermione has finally chosen a more dangerous bodyguard this time around. That Ron just didn't understand the matters of a woman.

              "What ever it is you force yourself to believe in, my statement stands strong. You'll be dead before Hermione can shed one tear over your pathetic soul." He turns away. "She's very valuable." He walks with his head high and strong. A true Gryffindor.

              "You think I don't know that?" I whisper to myself. She is more valuable to me than any Weasley could ever even fathom.

---

              She moves like a dancer. I wonder if she is. I watch between half-lidded eyes as she floats around my bedroom to collect her belongings. She sighs frustrated and I contemplate whether to tell her panties are in my pants pocket.

              How incredibly libidinous. She comes to my side and kisses my eyes.

              "I'm going to be working for the next week. I doubt I'll have time to see anyone," she says. My eyes open and I look at her. A halo surrounds her head as she smiles sadly down at me. I feel the light penetrating my soul. I turn away and close my eyes.

              "They're in my pant's pocket," I state. I feel her place a hand on my shoulder.

              "Draco?" Her voice is sad. Please don't cry.

              "Your panties. They're in my pocket." I turn over and pretend to fall asleep again. She shuffles away and in time, I hear the door softly close. I turn back onto my back and look at the pristine white ceiling. I think on her words and realize – I have no idea what she does. I stand and dress myself because I'm going to find out if it's the last thing I do.

---

              "Hermione Granger, eh?" Blaise smirks up at me, his eyes completely neutral. "So Draco Malfoy is smitten by Harry Potter's sidekick? Whatever is happening to the world today?" I want to smack him.

              "What do you know about her, _Zabini?"_ His smirk wipes off his face. He hates his surname possibly more than my father hated Muggles. Such is what happened when the Great War ended at the death of Voldemort.

              "Well, Malfoy, what do you want to know? My information is extensive, but one might find her life a bit dull at times," he deadpans. He smoothly whips out a fag and sets it ablaze. The smoke stings my eyes, but two years living in close quarters with men such as Blaise and Miles Bletchley who ironically smoked as if it would save their lives has given him some sort of immunity to the deliciously putrid smell. I smile sardonically. As if I could say the same for my surely blackened lungs.

              "What is her occupation? Who does she work with? What has she been up to since Hogwarts? The likes of that," I reply. He puffs a ring and settles down into his chair.

              "Are you sure you want to know, Malfoy? The information might frighten you." His smirk mirrors mine. "Hermione Granger is a strange woman. A strange woman indeed."

              "Quit stalling and tell me what you know so I can preserve my lungs a bit longer than you," I snap. He laughs and snuffs out his fag.

              "Alright alright. Don't say I didn't warn you. She still works with Potter. They started a business together almost immediately after the war. I suppose they didn't want to remember the destruction of the Muggle world. I will get to what it is in a moment, Malfoy," he cuts me off before I can speak. I close my mouth. "She owns an apartment with a Mr. George Weasley First Order of Merlin. His twin is married to some Qudditch player from America."

              "I haven't come to you to hear everyone connected to her's life story." I manage to get a word in. He sends me a scathing look.

              "Anyway, since the war ended she has only been seen with Potter and George Weasley on a personal level. All other friends – especially Ron Weasley – have become estranged from different...eh...intentions." He smirks and I think back to when Hermione told me George was gay. So Ron was a homophobic? For some reason the thought brings a smile to my face.

              "What does she do?" I am beginning to get impatient. I knew going to Blaise would take up more time than necessary. However, he was the best and Malfoys only got the best.

              "Are you sure you want to know? Such a sweet girl like Hermione isn't as angelic as everyone thinks." I give him a warning look. "Fine, Draco, I will tell you. But you might not like it." He lights another cigarette and drags. "Our little Hermione Granger is a vampire hunter."

              My mouth drops open. I had thought Blaise was joking, but obviously not.

              "I suppose she wants to seek revenge on the clan that murdered her parents, but they are already dead. Murdered by her own hands." He takes another drag. "Potter gives her the information, she takes it and makes use of it. A nice combination, I suppose – those two. But one can only kill so much and remain sane. I mean, look at Voldemort.

              "Ever since the war ended, she has been on the path to destroy herself. She knows it, Potter knows it. Hell – even the Weasleys know it. They can't stop her. We all know for a fact, don't we? That the thirst for blood can never be quenched until the last drops dead at your feet. Then you turn your wand on yourself and perish with them. A shame, really. It seems as if all the heroes of the war are killing themselves off." He shakes his head and snaps back from the trance he set himself into.

              "Well, there you go. Your beloved Hermione Granger kills the undead for a living." He grins ironically and takes the last drag from his cigarette.

**Author's Note:** please don't expect me to update regularily. I'm horrible at that, but I'm really trying for this story.


	4. Sway

**4 – Sway**

LostProphets 

                I pretend his words don't hurt me, but they do. They cut through my soul and I'm afraid I made a mistake in believing that the dragon won't breathe fire. George hugs me and I know he can tell something happened. I wrap my arms around his torso and breathe in his scent of George. I close my eyes because I don't want to see anymore.

                "Why do I do what I do, George?" I ask. He sighs and I feel it rumble through his chest. It lulls me into a sleepy state. "I kill for a living. I have the blood of so many people on my hands." I'm about to cry. I can feel it.

                "I wouldn't call killing vampires murder, sweetheart." He rubs my back and kisses my forehead.

                "Yes it is. They may be dead already, but it's still murder. I want to stop. I can't stand it anymore. Every time I push something into a heart, a part of me dies. I'm going to die, George." The tears flow and I forget about Draco and his harsh words. He doesn't know his lover is a murder and I'm surprised he can't see the hardness in my eyes or feel the callousness of my soul. I guess he's too screwed up to notice. We're just two tainted souls.

                "So quit, Hermione. No one's telling you to do this. I'm sure people won't be surprised if you decide you don't want to do it. Vampire hunting is a nasty business, it is," George says. His chest vibrates with his words and I push my face into it more. He always knows what to say.

                "I love you, George," I say. I pull away. "Please remember that." I pull the hood of my robe over my head to cover my face. I know all he sees now is a black cloak and a black void.

                "And I love you, Hermy." He leans over and kisses my head again before I point my wand towards my self. "Good-bye." I disappear.

---

                I walk silently towards the feast. Silhouettes dance across the ancient walls. I have learned long ago not to fear the savage grunts and screams that are always coming from the fires of a feast. I slip through the shadows cast from towering blocks that were destroyed in the Great War. I see my prey lounging against a pillar, watching his kin feast. I am disgusted.

                I raise my wand and mutter a charm. _Kreuz_. A steel cross shoots out of my wand and straight into his heart. He sputters in shock and looks up. The cross consumes him before words can be spilled, but his kin have seen. Vicious snarls erupt and the feast is forgotten to hunt the hunter. Their searches are futile. I have already left. 

---

                Tendrils of smoke flow from Harry's hand as he sets his crystal gaze on me. He purses his lips and breathes out two rings of smoke. Precise, just like him. There are shadows under his eyes and I wonder if he has slept since I left him in Australia. His shallow cheeks and thin frame tells me he hasn't. I want to cry, but I have shed enough tears already.

                "Why do you continue, Hermione?" He stuffs the cigarette into an ash trey. His eyes are on me still. "George told me you want to stop, so why are you here? You're killing yourself." I try to smile, but the feeling is foreign.

                "And what else am I supposed to do, Harry? I have nothing anymore." I can't tear my eyes away from the haunted jade of his eyes. 

                 "You have the Muggle world, love. Move to America, get a job. Make a life for yourself and leave this wretched place behind," he makes a feeble attempt to reason with me. I laugh bitterly and shake my head.

                "As if America doesn't have enough problems without another screwed up child of war," I reply. I could never leave Harry or George or even Draco. Mostly Draco. Harry looks at me and nods. He lights another cigarette and I'm afraid he'll burn himself to death. The ash trey is already full. He hands me parchment and leans back against the couch.

                "Kennedy Rail is his current alias. He changes them with the season, I suppose. He currently works for Malfoy Corporation as a foreign correspondent to America – conveniently his home country. He's become a nuisance – entirely too arrogant of himself. He's becoming messy," Harry tells me. This one will be easy, I can tell.

                "Will you be joining me?" I ask. Harry long since ended his career of murdering. His whole existence is tainted by his past – something he never wanted in the first place. 

                "Only if it's your last, love," he comments offhandedly. I peer into his eyes again. He is completely serious. I want to cry for him, but I have shed enough tears for him to fill the Red Sea. The blood I've shed could fill the Atlantic alone. I feel disgusting.

                "I don't know, Harry." I lower my eyes. I can't stand looking at him anymore. It's a wonder how far we've gone in so little time. I still remember the days where I worried about NEWTS obsessively. If only I knew then that my scores would mean little to what I do. I miss those days.

                "Hermione." His voice holds a warning I know I cannot ignore. Harry Potter may be a broken man, but he is a broken man with far more wisdom than I. I wish it wasn't so, but books and cleverness can only get one so far.

                "Fine. But who will take my place?" I ask. I wonder who's place I took in this cycle of life.

                "That is not for us to worry, love. One will come." Harry takes my chin in his hand and lifts my eyes. "Hermione, you'll kill yourself this way. Put the past behind you." I can't look away anymore. Harry always had a charm to him. A certain charisma that made people cherish him.

                "Can I tell you the same?" I counter. I'm always up for a good argument.

                "I'm not stopping you from telling me, but it's rather useless, don't you think? My whole past is one thing. One ultimate goal. Once it's passed, there's nothing else for me." His voice isn't bitter. In fact, his voice is little of anything anymore.

                "There's Quidditch." Harry snorts.

                "Quidditch won't do me any good anymore, love. This body has been beaten and broken too many times." His voice is sardonic.

                "That's your excuse isn't it, Harry Potter?" I'm suddenly angry – at him, at myself, I don't know. "It's funny how even when Voldemort is dead, he's still your excuse to everything. You're telling me that I need to let go of the past when you can't even let go of yourself." I stand up angrily and impatiently brush away his arm. "We're grown up, Harry. Voldemort is dead. It's gone and passed. Move on."

                "I can't, Hermione!" He stands up too. His eyes flash and finally I see life in them I haven't seen since seventh year. "My life, my pathetic excuse. They're all I have. I'm nothing. Don't you understand yet? I'm nothing. I'm a half-assed child celebrity that just happened to have a prophecy connected to my name. If there was no Voldemort, I'd be nothing."

                "But there is a Voldemort!" I stamp my foot in frustration. He never gets it. "And ever since first year you've used him as some kind of excuse for your life. You could do what ever the hell you wanted because you were Harry Potter. Even Fudge was too scared to expel you from Hogwarts. 'Oh, Harry Potter's supposed to kill Voldemort for us, so we're going to need him to be as prepared as possible. Imagine if he was killed by a psycho fugitive rather than Voldemort himself.' Pathetic." I raise my finger and point at him. "All you've thought about his Harry – ever since first year."

                "Oh that's rich, Hermione. As if your _lover_," he spits the word as if it's poison, "is any better." I reel back. Draco. My mind races. What am I doing, arguing with Harry? He hated Draco, even when Draco switched sides. He still does and he did not say anything until now about my affair.  I'm suddenly sick to my stomach.

                "Pathetic." I slump down onto the coach again. "We're all pathetic aren't we, Harry? Us 'heroes of war'. We're all so fucked up, we can't see the top anymore. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." I'm breaking down. All the fights I've fought. All the people I've killed. I suppose I'm still no stronger than I was before.

                "Oh Hermione. We needed that. We needed to get it out of our system." He sits down as well. "I pity our children, Hermione. I hope their generation is...happier than ours." I nod blindly. My tears burn trails down my cheeks.

                "I hope so too."


End file.
